Perfectly Flawed.

Ordinarily I would hide in my room until the color was drawn from the afternoon sky. Cigarette clouds enveloping me in their poisonous comfort. But my ordinary has morphed into atlas’s misery, juggling the world and all of it’s spinning plates on my back, while I give a tap dance. Often I wish for a cave to spear where not a soul could come and ask me to perform some mundane task for their own amusements. I suppose this is life on the other side of young. Though that never stops me from wishing I was like Major Tom alone in his tin can.

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